Round 2 Transcript

I grip the iron poker tighter, the cold metal a solid promise in my hands. The creaking from below intensifies—someone is definitely moving around down there now. I won't just stand here waiting; I need to see what I'm dealing with. My heels click sharply on the wooden floor as I move toward the kitchen doorway, the lamp's glow barely cutting through the shadows ahead. \"I know you're there,\" I call out, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surge. \"And I won't hesitate to defend myself.\"

As I step into the kitchen, I sweep the room quickly—the back door is still locked, the window closed. No immediate threats visible, but the stairwell to the basement gaped open now, darkness spilling upward. The sound was coming from down there, heavy and deliberate. \"Come up where I can see you,\" I demand, positioning myself between the basement stairs and the back door exit—if they try to run, I can cut them off. The poker feels like an extension of my arm now, balanced and ready.

The house settles with a sigh of old wood and settling plaster. The sound from below wasn't the furnace—it's too late in the season for that—and it wasn't the wind either, though the pines outside sound like crashing surf. I check the lamp on the side table: heavy brass base, solid. I pick it up by the neck, swing it once, feel the weight. The narrow hall to the kitchen and back door offers a clear path, but the stairwell is blind. I move toward the kitchen slowly, flashlight off, using only the ambient light from the windows. The house is a series of boxes, each one needing to be checked. The kitchen drawer yields knives—good—and a box of spare batteries. I pocket them both, then listen again. The creaking stopped. That means movement. Someone's moving downstairs now. I don't wait. I move toward the stairwell, lamp held ready, and descend into the darkness below.